Invisible

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  “Look at me. Rosa, look at me.” When she looks up, there’s a sly smile on her face.

  “Truly . . .” She drops my hand and crosses her heart. “I very sorry.”

  “You’re not sorry at all. Anyway, it’s too late. Now I’m stuck. Not with one coffee date, but two. Sabina and Miles.”

  Rosa nods. “Yes. Yes, you are.” She smiles at Paco and then goes and sits back at her place at the table. I see she’s served dessert while I was on the phone. I reach for a plate with a large slice of flourless chocolate-rum torte with lemon creme anglaise and then pick up a fork. I take a bite and my heart rate begins to slow.

  By the time I take the last bite, and swipe my finger across the plate to get the last drop of lemon creme, I’ve calmed down.

  So, okay . . .

  It won’t kill me to have coffee with the man just once.

  At least, I don’t think it will.

  And Sabina? She’s interesting. Coffee with her might just be fun.

  So yes. I have two dates . . . no, appointments . . . um, meetings with friends.

  Whatever!

  You are God and Lord of all you have created.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Eleven

  Twila

  Wednesdays I’m at Corners of the Mouth all day. The wind blows so hard today that the wood doors at the front of the store open a crack every few minutes and fill the entry with cold sea air. I turn the gas pot-bellied stove on to heat the place. The store is like, so quiet this morning. I guess most people are saving their errands until the wind dies down, though here, it could be spring before that happens.

  I lean against the counter where the registers are and read a new pamphlet on the cancer-fighting properties of broccoli sprouts. I know most of the information, but make a note to order some of the pamphlets to keep in the choir loft/herb room next to the seeds for sprouting.

  I hear one of the front doors bang again and move to shut it tight, but then I see Ellyn standing in front of the refrigerator case in the foyer. “Hi.”

  “Twila, hi, I was hoping you’d be here.”

  She’s pulling long pieces of red curly hair off her face and then pulls a band out of her pocket and puts it all back in a ponytail. That’s how I wore mine today too. “Pretty crazy wind, right?”

  “No kidding. It came up off the headlands last night and battered my house all night long. I thought I’d find shingles on the lawn this morning, but the old thing is sturdy, I guess. It did keep me awake most of the night though, so now not only is my hair blown in a hundred different directions, but I also have bags under my eyes.”

  I look at her and shrug. “You look good to me. Which house do you live in?”

  “It’s the renovated water tower off of Little Lake. The one facing the headlands. It has natural cedar shingles and a widow’s walk on top.”

  “I know the one. Cool. I love the old water towers around here. They have so much history.”

  “I like them too. When I moved here and saw that one, I knew I had to have it. It’s unique—charming. I can say that because I just rent it. The owner refuses to sell it.”

  “So what made you leave it on a day like today?” The front door bangs again. “Hey, come in here by the stove.”

  We walk over to the stove, and Ellyn stands in front of it. “Oh, it feels so good. It makes me want to purr like a big orange cat.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, it’s nice.”

  “Well, to answer your question, I have a couple of coffee dates today—people meeting me at the restaurant—and I’m out of cream. Since it’s Wednesday and we’re only open Thursday through Sunday, I don’t get a delivery until tomorrow. So I thought I’d grab something here. Have any half-and-half?

  “No, you’d have to go to Harvest for that, but we offer some great alternatives—good but healthy, you know?”

  “Twila, honey, do I look like I know?”

  I shrug again and smile. “I don’t know, I mean, you’re a chef, so . . .”

  “That I am. Le Cordon Bleu trained—in Paris, no less—which means heavy cream is a staple in my repertoire and healthy alternatives aren’t a consideration.” She grins. “So teach me something new.”

  “Sure. Follow me.” I lead her to the refrigerator cases in the back of the store. “We have soy creamer, or you could use a nut milk, like almond milk.”

  “Soy?” She puts her hand to her throat like she’s gagging.

  I laugh. “I’ll show you something else. C’mon.” She follows me to the center aisle of the store where I reach for a can on a low shelf. “Organic coconut milk. It’s rich and I hear it’s good in coffee.”

  She takes the can from me and looks at the label. “Twila, do you know how many calories are in this stuff?”

  “Sure. But it’s still good for you—it’s a good fat for your body. When you’re eating what your body needs, you don’t have to worry too much about calories. I mean, well, I know it’s hard not to think about the calories. I do. But . . .”

  “Really? Honey, look at you. You look like Twiggy.”

  “Who?”

  She shakes her head. “Never mind. Are you sure about your information? Where’d you learn this stuff?”

  “At UCSC. I have a masters in nutritional science.”

  She stares at me for a minute. “So you’re a child prodigy? A girl with an Einstein IQ who graduated from college when you were, what, twelve, maybe?”

  “No.” I take the can of coconut milk from her and put it back on the shelf.

  “Oh no, you don’t, I want to try it.” She reaches down and takes it off the shelf again.

  “Okay. It’s what Miles uses in his coffee.”

  She looks at me again and I watch as her neck and then her face blush the color of, like, a Pink Lady apple, or something.

  “Oh . . . so, you know about that . . . coffee thing he wanted to do?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” I’d asked my mom if Miles was interested in Ellyn after we went to dinner the other night. But I just guessed he might be one of her coffee dates today.

  She looks back at the can in her hand and then bends to reach for a second one. I can tell bending isn’t easy for her.

  “Do you have back problems?”

  “Honey, I have body problems.” She sighs. “But back to the coffee thing. Don’t you think it’s odd that a man like Miles wants to have coffee with me?”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because . . .”

  She hesitates and looks, I don’t know, like, uncomfortable, maybe.

  “Because . . . look at me.”

  I shrug again. “Maybe others don’t see you the way you see yourself, you know?”

  She shakes her head. “All others have to do is look at me to see what I see in the mirror.”

  “It doesn’t always work like that.” I reach for the left sleeve of the sweater I’m wearing and pull it up. “See this?” I show Ellyn my wrist. She comes closer and takes my arm in her hands and turns her head so she can read what it says.

  “Imago Dei? The image of God?”

  “Right.”

  I look at her and smile. “You know that you’re created in the image of God, right?”

  She nods. “Sure, Genesis, chapter 1, but what’s your point?”

  “Just that we’re each created in the image of God, but we’re all different. You have red hair, mine is brown. You’re tall, I’m not. But not only that, we all have different wiring on the inside too—things that make us unique. But all of us, in some way, reflect an image of God—of who He is. So who’s to say what’s right or what’s wrong about how we look?”

  Her forehead creases like she’s thinking about what I’m saying.

  “I mean, w
e’re supposed to take care of our bodies, but I think the best way we do that is just to be close to God. Intimate, you know? Then everything else sort of falls into place.”

  “Huh. Pretty insightful. How old are you? Really?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “You must have great genes, girly.” Then she looks at her watch. “Oh, I have to go!”

  “I’ll ring you up.”

  She follows me to the register where I key in her two cans of coconut milk.

  “Twila, would you be willing to teach me some of what you know about nutrition—healthy nutrition?”

  “Um, sure. But—”

  “I have to run, but I’ll call you or come by again, okay? We can work on creating those vegan dishes too.”

  “Okay.”

  As she turns to go and heads for the door, I remember something. “Hey, make sure you heat or froth the coconut milk, so it isn’t chunky.”

  She turns back. “Chunky?”

  “Yeah, the fat from the coconut solids coagulates.”

  “Right. Sounds . . . delicious?”

  I laugh again. “Trust me.”

  “You know, Twila, I think I already do. Thanks.”

  After Ellyn leaves, I pull up the sleeve of my sweater again, and read the tattoo, something I do several times a day. Sometimes several times an hour. I need to remember why it’s there and what led me to have it forever inked where I’d see it.

  Imago Dei.

  See how the human soul lies weak and prostrate when it is not yet attached to the solid rock of truth.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Twelve

  Ellyn

  I leave the cans of coconut milk on the stainless countertop, along with a container of cookies I baked this morning. I flip the espresso maker on to heat, and then take my purse with me into the restroom to see if I can undo the damage the wind did to my hair. “Of all the days, Lord, to stir up the wind.”

  Like it’s all about you, Ellyn.

  I look in the mirror and see . . . myself.

  You were expecting a super model?

  I pull the band out of my hair and let it fall over my shoulders—a cascade of carrot-colored frizz. Ugh. I turn on the faucet, wet my hands, and run them through the frizz. I do this a few times until the frizz is damp and there’s a slight hope of the natural curl making a comeback.

  I pull a full makeup bag out of my purse, an anomaly, and swipe matte powder under my eyes and then apply peach-colored blush to my cheeks. I dust my eyelids with a neutral shade of shadow and then use a deep brown shadow above the creases of my lids.

  I try to remember what the department store makeup sales woman who sold me all the makeup did to me the day she snagged me, sat me in a chair, and used me as her free makeover candidate. I haven’t been back to the mall in Santa Rosa since.

  I dig through the makeup bag until I find liquid brown eyeliner. “Steady.” I follow the line of my lashes, applying a thin line on my upper lids. Then I use a brown pencil liner just under my bottom lashes. I reach for dark brown mascara and brush it through my light lashes.

  I finish the job with a slash of coral-colored lipstick. I rub my lips together and then step back from the mirror to get the full effect.

  A stranger looks back at me.

  The brown eye makeup sets off my eyes, making them shine like wet sea glass. The matte powder, blush, and lipstick make my face glow.

  My breath catches as I stare at the beautiful woman in the mirror.

  You look like you’re trying too hard.

  “Shut up, Earl. Shut up.”

  He’ll think you want more than coffee.

  “Shut—”

  Men always want more. He’ll use you. You know men are like that.

  “Who am I kidding?”

  I reach for a paper towel and rub the lipstick off my lips. It leaves coral smudges around my mouth.

  I turn the hot water on and let it run for a few seconds and then moisten the paper towel with warm water. I scrub my face until the paper shreds. I grab a handful of paper towels, wet them, and then pump soap onto them. I close my eyes and rub and rub until I’m sure the makeup is gone. I get more towels wet and wash the soap off my face.

  When I open my eyes and look in the mirror, I see myself again. Red blotches cover my face where I scrubbed. Then my eyes fill and tears run down my cheeks.

  Stupid soap.

  I bend down and splash warm water on my face to wash the tears away. When I’m done, I reach for another paper towel, dry my face, and then stuff the makeup bag back into my purse.

  I turn and head for the kitchen without looking in the mirror again.

  I reach for a square dessert plate and begin putting the cookies on the plate. One on the plate, and one in my mouth, one on the plate, and one in my mouth—the small butter cookies melt in my mouth. I stuff two more cookies into my mouth and then put the lid on the container.

  I garnish the plate with three blackberries and a sprig of mint.

  When I swallow the last of the cookies, I want more. But I look at the clock and know he’ll be here any minute. I get a glass of water and take a drink, swishing the water around in my mouth before spitting it into the big stainless steel sink, then I spray the sink down with hot water.

  I open a can of coconut milk and pour it, chunks and all, into a pitcher and set it next to the espresso maker. Just as I’m filling two porcelain latte mugs with hot water to warm them, I hear a tap on the back door.

  I told both Miles and Sabina to come around back since we aren’t open. And I told Miles to come first, ninety minutes before Sabina. I look down at the sweater I’m wearing and brush crumbs off my chest. I take a deep breath and then go to open the back door.

  I seat Miles at a table for two near the kitchen and place the plate of cookies on the table.

  “These look great.”

  “Well, it’s what I do.”

  “You do it very well, Ellyn. Dinner the other night was incredible.”

  I nod. “I’ll get our coffee.”

  “May I help?”

  “No. No, just relax. I’ll be right back.” I go back to the kitchen, steam the pitcher of coconut milk, and then put the now-warm cups under the two espresso spigots on the machine. Two shots in each cup, and then I pour the coconut milk in—it doesn’t froth as much as milk, but it’s not bad. I top the lattes off with a sprinkle of grated fresh nutmeg.

  When I return to the dining room, Miles is standing, looking at a print on the wall. “Is this a local artist?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t afford an original, so I settled for a print.”

  “I like it.” He turns around and comes back to the table. “So, you like modern art?”

  I shrug. “Some of it. I like the vibrant colors he uses and I like the texture—he layers paint on the canvas, so there’s depth to his work. Though it’s hard to see that on the print.” I set the lattes on the table.

  Miles comes around the table and pulls out my chair for me. I know this game. Always a gentlemen, until—

  “Wow, the coffee smells great. What’s on top?”

  “Nutmeg. And the milk is coconut.”

  “Really? How did you know?”

  I hesitate. Does he think I did it just for him? “I didn’t know. I stopped by Corners to pick up some half-and-half. Twila seemed to know you were coming, so she suggested coconut milk. They didn’t have half-and-half.” I take a sip of the latte. “I think I’ll stick with half-and-half in the future.”

  After my rude quip, I read a question in Miles’s eyes. Ugh, I’m such a heel. I take another sip. “Well, maybe it just takes getting used to. It is pretty good. How’d you get started on coconut milk?”

  He smiles. “Sarah.”


  “Ah . . .” I hate it when Earl is right. It isn’t all about me. Miles has really suffered. “So . . . how . . .” I put my hand over my heart, which aches for his loss. “How are you . . . now?”

  He leans back in his seat. “The last two years have been hard. Lonely. But the two years before that . . . watching her suffer. That was harder. I prayed for a miracle for her. For myself. But that wasn’t God’s plan.”

  “How did you deal with that? God’s part in it, I mean.”

  “I was angry with Him, at first. But I couldn’t sustain the anger. I’ve walked too long with God. I know Him too well.”

  “Wow . . .”

  “No, it wasn’t as noble as it sounds. I struggled. I questioned. I . . . cried. I know God has the power to save—to heal. But He didn’t. That was hard to swallow and I don’t understand why He didn’t heal Sarah. But, at the same time, He’s unfathomable—beyond our understanding. That’s part of faith—believing what we can’t see or understand.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Haven’t you ever questioned God?”

  “Honestly?”

  His blue eyes glitter as the afternoon sun streams into the café. “That’s the only way to have a conversation.”

  I nod. “I lost my dad just before I was to leave for college.” I shake my head at the stab of pain that still, all these years later, causes me to catch my breath “A senseless accident.”

  Compassion softens his features. “I’m sorry, Ellyn.”

  My throat catches at his gentle words. “It was a long time ago. But it did change the course of my life. I’d been accepted at Saint Mary’s—away from home, but not far enough away after he was gone. My mother . . .” I sigh. “She’s a story for another time. Anyway, I ran. I went to France—decided to cook. I did my culinary training at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. I never took the time to question God.” I shrug again. “The idea kind of scares me, I guess.”

  He leans forward, “Why?”

  “Why?” I laugh, trying to lighten the conversation. “He might strike me with lightning!” Time to change the subject. I stand. “May I warm your coffee?”